


No Tadpoles

by wheel_pen



Series: Nicobar [15]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, BDSM, M/M, Nicobar, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 15:59:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5211986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slave John has difficulty adjusting to life with master Sherlock 24/7. Tadpoles where they shouldn’t be, patronizing personal trainers—but on the other hand there’s the mall, and saying no to Cedric.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Tadpoles

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.  
> This story is set in a fictional modern country where slavery is legal. There is a huge disparity between the very rich, who sequester themselves in luxurious compounds, and the rest of the population.  
> Inherent in slavery and other forms of subjugation are dubious consent, unhealthy relationships, and violence.  
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

Sherlock’s private quarters contained four bedrooms and three full baths. That was the standard allotment for a member of the family who was single, or a couple with no children. Once you had children you upgraded to something much larger, or so John understood. The three additional bedrooms were much smaller than the master, of course; more like the size of Sherlock’s closet, though that was pretty massive as closets went.

Even this secondary bedroom—specifically meant for live-in slaves, of course—was larger than any John had ever slept in as an adult, and it contained actual pieces of furniture. He was now the proud user of a full-sized bed, nightstand, bureau, desk, chair, and bookcase, as well as his own closet, an actual separate space with a door, instead of just a hanging rod.

Someone, at some point in time, had decorated this room, matching cherry furniture with the light green walls and dark green carpet. Even the slaves’ rooms had to look nice in someone’s suite, John supposed. Of course Sherlock had filled the extra space with obscure books on gruesome topics, grisly implements of experimentation, and yellowed three-ring binders of “lab notes” from his younger days, which John was fascinated by in a car crash gawker sort of way.

All of that had been shoved—largely through John’s efforts—into the blue bedroom, along with whatever had been occupying the final, yellow bedroom. “One of these days” Sherlock promised they would go through the collection and get rid of some things; John was not sure if he should look forward to that or not. Then Sherlock had sprung for a professional cleaner—okay, slaves who specialized—to come in and deep clean the green and yellow rooms, so by the time John moved in his meager pack of belongings, his room had mostly lost its dusty, slightly astringent smell.

John had picked the green room for two reasons, of his choice between green and blue. One, the blue room held Sherlock’s haphazard collection of taxidermy specimens, which had a peculiar odor that John felt he would always _think_ he smelled, no matter how well the room was cleaned. And two, the blue room shared a bathroom with the yellow room, whereas the green room was straight across the hall from the third full bath. John figured he would use that one, and Molly would use the bath attached to the yellow room, and then each of them would have their own bathroom. Which, for someone who had spent the last several years using communal bathrooms in various settings, was quite remarkable.

Okay, still a slave in a foreign country. Now owned by one person, who wouldn’t share, though his hobbies did tend to cause pain. And with his own bedroom and bathroom! Sometimes John didn’t know whether to be glad his life was looking up, or sad that his life was so pathetic this _counted_ as ‘looking up.’ Sherlock and Molly were useless for discussing that topic, of course.

Sherlock wasn’t the easiest person to live with, which was not a surprise. For one thing he’d never lived with anyone as an adult before, and for another, he was Sherlock. He tended to wander in and out of the suite with no warning, kept no schedule that John could discern, and seemed to be up half the night making noise or creating noxious fumes with his experiments. John tried to tolerate it as best he could, what with the whole ‘slave’ thing.

But some things you just didn’t mess with.

He picked up the teakettle one morning and noticed it was full, which was odd right there, and when he took the lid off the contents gave off a horrible smell. Grimacing dramatically—it was early and he hadn’t slept much—John started to pour it out. Then something ghastly wriggled from the spout and slithered down the drain, and John couldn’t take it anymore.

“Sherlock!” He had to call several times and wondered if perhaps he wasn’t even here.

“What?” Sherlock finally replied impatiently, appearing from the storage room beside the living area.

“ _What_ is in the teakettle?” John demanded, pointing at it accusingly.

Sherlock had to think for a minute. “Tadpoles,” he remembered. “Don’t bother them.” He started to leave.

“No, hang on!” John insisted, following him. “There are tadpoles in the teakettle! How am I supposed to make tea?”

“Be resourceful, John,” Sherlock advised without concern. He was digging through some jars of preserved body parts in the storage room. “You were a doctor once, after all.”

John felt that was a low blow, especially for this time of the morning. “I need a teakettle to make tea. A _clean_ teakettle. And I _need_ tea, because you kept me up all bloody night with those bugs, and those bites really itch by the way, and all I want is some tea and buttered toast without moving tadpoles and eyeballs and poisonous plants to get it!”

John finally stopped, and the industrial room seemed to echo slightly in the silence. Sherlock was staring at him, holding what looked like a jar of pickled toes, which he set down definitively. “Um, sir,” John added lamely. “I’ll make some coffee,” he decided, and turned swiftly to leave.

“John. Get back here.”

Slowly John turned back around. “Sorry,” he confessed sincerely. “I was out of line. Sir.”

“Oh, you couldn’t even _see_ the line anymore, John,” Sherlock needled.

“Yes. Sorry.” John kept his eyes firmly down, trying to give off a penitent air. He _was_ penitent, it was a rude way to speak to anyone, even if they’d been ordinary flatmates in London. Maybe in that situation there would be less chance of tadpoles in the teakettle, though.

“My tadpoles need to be housed in a dark environment with a small hole for sample collection,” Sherlock went on pedantically.

“Yes, sir.”

“The teakettle is the perfect vessel for this.”

“Yes, sir. One went down the drain,” John admitted, stealing a look at Sherlock.

“Oh for the love of—“ Sherlock exclaimed in frustration. “Just one? You’re sure?”

“Yes, sir.”

Sherlock sighed heavily. “Where was the teakettle again?”

“In the kitchen, on the stove,” John reported. He was not sure he could survive meek submission to Sherlock’s whims twenty-four/seven, frankly. He hadn’t been all that good at it before, when he’d only spent _part_ of his time with masters.

“I suppose that is a logical place to keep a teakettle intended for food use,” Sherlock stated. John blinked a couple of times, as this sounded like something of a concession. “You may put it in the dining room.” That was where he kept his plants and caged specimens. “In a dark corner away from the vent!” he added as John went off to do it. It did not get John tea and toast, of course, but it was better than being punished for insolence. Though that could still be coming.

Sherlock hovered at a distance, watching the teakettle placement. “Alright?” John checked.

“Yes. Let’s see those bites you complained about.”

John drew his shirt off and stood under a strong light so Sherlock could examine the red bumps on his upper arm. He felt like he had to be rather careful around him at the moment, which made him tense. Now would be a good time for Sherlock to wander off on his own, if he wanted.

“They’re not bites, they don’t bite,” Sherlock claimed as he photographed the marks. “You must be allergic to the secretions from their footpads.”

“Oh. Well,” John replied, not sure what else to say that was safe.

“Why didn’t you tell me they were bothering you?” Sherlock asked, a bit peevishly.

“I thought that was the point,” John tried to explain. “Wasn’t that the point?”

Apparently not, as Sherlock sighed heavily and led him to the bathroom, where he produced a tube of anti-itch cream. “I cannot read your mind, John,” he said patronizingly, nonetheless applying the cream with some care. “If you are uncomfortable I expect you to speak up. If you cannot be responsible I will find some other use for you.”

This sounded rather ominous to John. “Does that mean no sex?” He didn’t think they needed to go _that_ far.

Sherlock turned away abruptly to wash his hands. “Well just keep that in mind the next time you’re thinking of being negligent,” he warned.

John was slightly confused at this point, but one had to remember that Sherlock didn’t have normal reactions to things. “So, negligent is… not telling you I didn’t like the bugs?” he guessed.

“Exactly,” Sherlock confirmed, as if it should be obvious.

“Okay,” John agreed. “I will work on that.”

“Good. If you’re going to be underfoot all the time, you at least ought to be trustworthy,” Sherlock judged, as if John was a street urchin he’d taken in, who’d just been caught stealing his cufflinks. John tried to wrap his head around that logic but wasn’t sure it would be possible. Sherlock shook himself as if generously moving on. “Now—are you suitable for going out? Have you brushed your teeth?”

“Yes,” John assured him. Alright, looked like he would have to do without breakfast for a while longer. Sherlock of course rarely ate. “Well, I should put my shirt on.”

“Yes, John.” He hurried to do so. “Come on, let’s go,” Sherlock added impatiently as he waited by the door. Half his attention was on his phone as he strode out the door with John trotting after him. “Mycroft says tadpoles don’t belong in teakettles,” he added after a moment, indicating his mobile.

“There’s a nursery rhyme in that,” John quipped, hoping that was safe.

Sherlock didn’t seem to get it but also didn’t care that much. “You know, I’ve never owned a slave personally, John,” he went on, and somehow his tone sounded like he was still blaming John for something. “It’s a big change for me. I don’t have time to micromanage your biological functions.”

“Like eating?” John surmised.

“Exactly.” Sherlock grimaced slightly at the very idea. “You must take care of those things on your own. And, when in public, you must behave yourself, because your conduct reflects on me.” John was tempted to make a comment about how Sherlock’s reputation couldn’t get any worse, but that _definitely_ didn’t seem safe.

“Um, where are we going?” he asked instead, looking around at the unfamiliar corridor.

Sherlock steeled himself to face the sliding glass doors on the other side of the approaching guard station. “The mall,” he intoned. Clearly this was not his favorite activity.

“Really? The mall? Wow.” John tried to contain his excitement, knowing Sherlock wouldn’t appreciate it. “I’ve never been to the mall before.”

Sherlock started to sweep through the guard station per usual, ignoring all the safety protocols about physically recording his passage. He didn’t like being bothered and the guards had long ago learned they didn’t like bothering him. But then, as the sliding doors parted to reveal a glimpse of the colorful mall, Sherlock suddenly stopped, considered something, and backtracked.

“Are we _not_ going to the mall?” John asked mildly.

“I know how whiny you get when denied caffeine and breakfast, John,” Sherlock claimed, “but please try to conceal your disappointment better.”

John wanted to roll his eyes at this, and would have if they were alone, and not a bit tense. But since the guards were right there he simply said, “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

Sherlock huffed at his uncharacteristic display of subservience—it was so hard to figure out what this man _wanted_ —and turned to the guard station. Both uniformed men looked up warily. “Guard station,” Sherlock pointed out. “When you go through one on your own, you have to swipe your finger to make a record.”

John blinked at him. “Yes, I know,” he couldn’t help sputtering.

“Well _I_ didn’t know you knew,” Sherlock protested. “You’ve never done it before.”

“I’ve done it lots of times,” John argued, not sure if Sherlock was joking (unlikely) or really just this dense (in this area, more likely). “Just whenever I’m with you, you blaze right through and no one ever stops us.”

“Well that ends right now, John,” Sherlock stated, as if John had been doing something horribly wrong this whole time, and now John _did_ roll his eyes. “Since you belong to me now, I want a complete record of your movements around the compound, especially the public zone.”

“Okay, that’s fine,” John promised, swiping his thumb over the pad. It lit up green, allowing him access to the doors ahead. “That’s what I always do when I’m alone.”

“Master Holmes?” a guard dared to prompt, indicating that it was Sherlock’s turn.

Sherlock merely gave him a glare that shrank the man back into his seat, quite a feat considering the guard was armed. “Let’s go,” he told John, and swept through the doors into the mall.

They came out on the third floor of the glittering marble and steel palace, immediately engulfed by extra-frigid air, generically soothing music, and the indistinct echoes of voices and footsteps bouncing off the hard surfaces. Sherlock gave a visible shudder, as if mingling with the masses physically pained him.

John reined in his eyes, which were darting all over the storefronts he could see on their level and down through the central courtyard. Instead he took Sherlock’s hand. “So where are we going?”

Sherlock consulted his phone. “This way,” he replied, which didn’t exactly answer John’s question, and began striding along.

The stores were as modern and varied as anything in an upscale London mall, though mostly John had never heard of the brands—a few Asian companies, perhaps. What with institutionalized slavery and severe economic disparity there weren’t a lot of Western brands that were ready to associate themselves with Nicobar, and the Nicobarese didn’t court them, either. They had choices enough, it seemed, as fine leather goods, high end clothing, electronic gadgets, books, jewelry, and perfumed products flew by. The delicious scent of something cinnamon sugary made John’s mouth water.

He couldn’t just stare at the shops, though, or their patrons in Western clothes with predominantly South Asian features; Sherlock walked down the crowded hall as though it was completely empty, utterly confident that people would get out of his way. And considering the aura he projected, they mostly did—but they weren’t going to get out of _John’s_ way, so he spent most of the trip walking right behind Sherlock, trying not to step on his heels.

At nearly the opposite end of the third floor Sherlock decided to stop, and John surveyed the store in front of them—it looked like an expensive, tightly packed teashop. “In here,” Sherlock announced grimly, stepping over the threshold. The air was a heavenly mix of various coffees and teas that were brewing, though John could do without the narrow aisles on either side piled with breakable glass and ceramic.

A well-dressed sales associate swooped down on them, her hair and make-up done to the nines. “May I help you, sir?” she cooed at Sherlock.

Her charms were lost on him. “I need a teakettle,” he declared abruptly. John suddenly began to realize what they were doing here and tried to hide his smile. How infuriatingly Sherlock-like, to insult you in the midst of planning something nice. John found it endearing, though, and squeezed his hand, which caused Sherlock to turn sharply in his direction.

“Certainly, sir,” the saleswoman responded. “What kind are you looking for?”

“My slave will find it,” Sherlock told her dismissively, releasing John.

“Yes, sir,” John answered quickly, and hurried off to look around. It was hard not to get distracted by the myriad of kitchen gadgets for sale, and John had no idea what kind of price constraints he might be under. Considering Sherlock’s usual concern for money, he probably didn’t need to worry about the latter, only about Sherlock’s patience level as he waited. John glanced over to check on him and found Sherlock leaning against the counter, sipping a cup of coffee and engrossed in his phone. Still, best not push it.

John chose a kettle that looked much like their current one, except silver-colored instead of copper. “What do you think?” he asked.

“Can you use it to make tea?” Sherlock asked with disinterest.

“Yes.”

“Fine then.” The saleswoman returned to them in a flash, perhaps due to some kind of rich-person telepathy. “We’ll take this one,” Sherlock told her.

“Very good, sir.”

“What you do,” Sherlock went on, presumably talking to John though he was staring at his phone, “is tell her you want to put it on my account.”

“Oh. Alright.” John turned to the saleswoman with a smile. “Hello, how are you?” She looked at him as if he was something she’d found on the bottom of her shoe. Sherlock laughed suddenly, but it seemed to be at something on his mobile. “I’d like to put this on Sherlock Holmes’s account, please.”

She pecked at the computer and pushed the fingerprint scanner at him. “Do you want it engraved, sir?” she asked Sherlock respectfully, ignoring John as he swiped his finger.

“No. Yes,” Sherlock reversed suddenly, finally looking up. “How long will it take?”

“Less than an hour, sir. We can deliver it to your suite,” the woman assured him.

“Fine, let’s do that.” She started to hand Sherlock a form but quickly passed it to John—slaves were very useful at filling out paperwork, apparently.

And Sherlock wanted an engraved teakettle. Was he going to get his initials on it? Perhaps the date?

“What font do you want?” John asked him.

“Plain.”

He checked a box. “And what message?”

“No tadpoles.”

John looked over at Sherlock to see if he was answering or just muttering random words. Sherlock met his gaze innocently and John smirked and added the message. “There you go,” he announced to the saleswoman.

“Thank you, sir,” she replied, looking only at Sherlock. “Have a nice day.” Sherlock didn’t bother to acknowledge her but just walked out, with John following.

“So that’s how you buy things?” John concluded. “Well, I buy things on your behalf. Seems easy enough.”

“Tedious, very tedious,” Sherlock judged heavily. “You have the receipt?” John started to hand it to him but that was the last thing Sherlock wanted. “You’re responsible for those,” he explained. “Mycroft says we have to keep them… for something.”

“Perhaps balancing the accounts later?” John suggested.

Sherlock clearly had no idea what that meant. “So you can come here by yourself and buy things,” he described vaguely to John, heading towards the escalators.

“Alright. What sort of things? Watch your step,” John added, catching Sherlock’s shoulder as the escalator made him wobble.

“What’s wrong with this thing?” Sherlock demanded, looking at the machinery suspiciously as they descended.

“Nothing, that’s how it works,” John assured him. “Step off now.”

“It _looked_ rather simple,” Sherlock noted, as if experience had now told him it was not.

“Where were we going?” John prompted. Obviously escalators were too egalitarian for Sherlock.

Sherlock looked around. “Over here.” He was heading towards a coffee shop.

“So, er, what things am I to buy?” John asked again, trying not to focus on his rumbling stomach.

“Oh, whatever I need,” Sherlock tossed off. “For the household. Like tea and duct tape and garbage bags.”

Telling that those were the first things to come to mind. “Perhaps food?” John suggested diplomatically as they got in line. “Toilet paper? That sort of thing?”

“Figure it out,” Sherlock delegated. “Also things for you and Molly, to keep you from bothering me. Like…” Long pause while John stared at him unhelpfully. “…books,” Sherlock finally finished, and John burst into a grin.

“Thank you!” He hadn’t expected Sherlock to give much thought to their needs, frankly.

“Don’t go overboard,” Sherlock cautioned immediately and John nodded quickly.

“Could you give me a budget?” John asked tentatively. “A figure I shouldn’t go over?”

“No,” Sherlock replied, as if he had no idea where to start with that.

“Okay,” John agreed. “D’you want me to wait in line while you sit down?” he offered, feeling much more kindly disposed towards Sherlock now. “What do you want?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock decided. “Get your breakfast.” He promptly wandered off.

John waited in line, trying to keep the off-kilter grin from his face. He’d been really worried about living with Sherlock for a while there, but now he could see better how it worked—if he was allowed to go out and buy things for himself and Molly, there was no need to fear Sherlock forgetting they needed things like food and clothing. And books! That was more than mere survival, that was trying to make things _nice_ for them.

Of course, people bought toys for their pets, too. So John tried to squash down thoughts about a deeper respect for their humanity blossoming within Sherlock. He wasn’t sure Sherlock really saw _anyone_ that way, though.

Shaking his head John turned his attention to his order. The coffee shop was your typical overstuffed, highly-merchandised chain (he recognized the name from kiosks in the family zone) with exotic-sounding drinks and luscious pastries in the case.

“And for you, sir?” the bright-eyed barista prompted John.

He wondered if he was supposed to mention he was a slave right off. People here didn’t seem to like making mistakes about that. “I’ll have a large tea, and one of those raspberry scones,” he replied instead.

“Grab a teabag,” the barista suggested, nodding at the display near John as he went to get the pastry. He came back with the plate and a cup of hot water, and totaled it up.

“Can you put this on the account of Sherlock Holmes?” John asked, and the barista gave him a sideways glance.

“Scan here,” he said, so John did. John was intensely curious about what came up on the computer screen—the fact that he was a slave, or just approval to use Sherlock’s account? Either way the barista remained unimpressed. “Next?” he called, and John scooted aside, taking his tea to the condiments counter.

He might _not_ be Sherlock’s slave, right? John wondered this as he dressed his tea. What if he was his free companion, his boyfriend or husband? Certainly they had such things here, John had met them at parties. But maybe they always had an account in their own names, even if it all came from the household’s pot. John doubted Sherlock would even know.

With his cup and plate John moved carefully through the crowded shop, searching for Sherlock. Finally he found him at a table out in the main thoroughfare, which was slightly less congested. Sherlock glanced up as he sat down but then went back to his phone. It was kind of nice, sitting there quietly, John thought. With Sherlock occupied, John could enjoy his breakfast at a pleasant pace, while watching all the people who went by.

“Seems to be doing a good business today,” John commented when he was halfway through. Several people had gone by with their arms laden with shopping bags. Sherlock didn’t acknowledge him. “We can just have things delivered to the suite?”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed after a moment, giving John a crumb of attention. “I usually just text the shops when I need something and have it brought round. Rather than coming… here.”

He sounded like he was being forced into a contagious diseases ward. “Thank you for coming here today, to show me how it works,” John told him politely.

Of course good manners were wasted on Sherlock. “You have your phone? When I say to come home, you’d better do so,” he warned. “And not be too tired for an experiment.”

John’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “You want me to stay here? Today?”

Clearly he was missing Sherlock’s point. “You and Molly may come here when you _wish_ ,” he specified, as though having to spell it out was painful for him. “Don’t bother me with the details. And keep in shape,” he added pointedly, as John licked some raspberry filling off his fingers.

John was trying not to get too excited about all this, because with Sherlock you never knew. “Is there a gym that allows slaves?” he asked carefully. “Aside from the slave quarters?” Physical appearance was rather important for pleasure slaves.

He could see he was testing the limits of Sherlock’s patience. “In the family zone, there is one for family slaves,” he claimed vaguely. “Somewhere. Figure it out.”

“Right, yes.”

“Are you done?” Sherlock asked abruptly, looking at John’s empty dishes.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Then let’s go.” Sherlock rose swiftly and John hurried after him, leaving the plate and cup behind although he wasn’t sure if that was proper. “We’re going to organize the storeroom today,” Sherlock declared, with determination. “Start, anyway.”

“Oh. Alright.” John thought of the pickled body parts and almost wished his stomach was still empty.

**

They had cooking-competition shows here, a remarkably similar format to what John had seen in England, not that he’d watched a lot there. Some of the contestants had a patrician background, pampered compound children who cooked to delight family and guests; others came from the streets, impoverish, clawing their way up from street vendors to grimy diners to top restaurants. It made for that extra frisson of tension so necessary for good TV.

There were no slaves, of course. Unless maybe the menial dishwashers were slaves. Probably not, though. It’d be cheaper to pay someone poorly and send them home at the end, than to figure out food and lodging for a slave.

John contemplated all this as he sat on the couch in Sherlock’s living room, having a snack and enjoying the big-screen telly Sherlock never used. There was a TV in the bedroom, too, and even one in the master bath, for the ultimate in excess. Sherlock was not home; he’d disappeared earlier, and John had had time to do some cleaning and visit Molly in the hospital, and when he came back there was still no sign of Sherlock.

What could he possibly be doing for so many hours? Sherlock, who didn’t have friends or work or any normal interests. Maybe John didn’t want to know.

He heard the click of the door and sat up more, muting the telly as Sherlock entered. “Hello,” John told him attentively. He still wasn’t sure what kind of greeting Sherlock expected.

Sherlock barely acknowledged him and stomped over to a chair, flinging himself down into it as he tossed a couple of pamphlets onto the couch by John. “Waste of time,” he declared emphatically, personally affronted by this.

“Where’ve you been, then?” John asked curiously, picking up the booklets. They were slick and glossy, with model-pretty faces and bodies inside. “What’s this about?”

“What are you eating?” Sherlock demanded instead. “Make sure it’s on the approved list.” He sounded deeply sarcastic.

John finally parsed the title of one pamphlet. “ _Your Guide to Slave Nutrition_? What the h—l?”

“I have spent a very dull morning at the—what do they call it?” Sherlock snatched the other brochure back. “The Family Slave Training Facility,” he read.

John’s head snapped up. “You’re—are you sending me for _training_?” His tone was more than indignant, bordering on angry at the thought that this was possible here.

His ire made Sherlock smirk. “I should, shouldn’t I?” he commented dryly. He leaned back in the chair and stretched his long legs out on the coffee table. “Fetch me some tea.”

John left the brochures behind and went to turn the heat on under the teakettle—the new silver-colored one engraved with “No Tadpoles.” Seeing that always made him feel a little better, and remember that Sherlock often played a long game—irritating and arrogant until he did something nice at the end. John drifted back over to the living room and grabbed the nutrition guide again. By and large its advice was sound—fluids, fruits and vegetables, avoid sodium, etc.—but the tone…

“It’s like what you’d write about a dog,” he described. “’This diet will keep your slave’s skin clear and his or her hair glossy and strong,’” he quoted incredulously.

“Do you have strong hair, John?” Sherlock mused, with some small measure of self-awareness. “I will have to devise an experiment to test that.”

The teakettle whistled and John went to attend it. He slipped a few biscuits onto a plate, suspecting Sherlock hadn’t eaten all day, and carried the tray back to the living room. Naturally Sherlock did not move his feet so John could set the tray down.

“What’s this other one about, then?” he asked once Sherlock was situated with tea and a biscuit (which he looked askance at). John flipped through the second brochure. “Oh, it’s about the gym,” he realized. After Sherlock told him to ‘figure it out’ John had located the gym where slaves owned by the family worked out, but had gotten a red light upon trying to enter—his master hadn’t given him permission in the system to use it. Thus putting the burden back on Sherlock, which he hated. “So the Slave Training Facility is just what they call the gym,” he posited, feeling better.

“Oh it’s so much more than a gym, John,” Sherlock refuted flatly. Clearly he’d been subjected to an enthusiastic sales pitch. “My slaves can get personalized exercise and nutrition programs to mold them into the physical form I desire.”

John grimaced, but was pleased to see Sherlock eating the biscuit. _He_ was the one that needed a nutrition program. “How are Molly and I to be, er, molded?” he asked tentatively.

“Well, I said I wanted you to have stamina, and not get fat, and have increased pain tolerance,” Sherlock reported, and John nodded as if this was perfectly normal. “They weren’t sure about the last one. Full service, indeed!” he scoffed. “Oh, also you can get your hair cut there. And learn how to waltz and dress properly for a dinner party. You ought to look into that,” he added seriously. “You’ll be accompanying me to even more dreadful social events and your manners could use some work.”

John did not comment on Sherlock’s own manners, which veered from coolly disinterested to outright rude. But family members were allowed latitude slaves were not. “Alright, I’ll look into it,” he promised. “You set it up so I can go there?”

“Yes,” Sherlock assured him. “You’ll have to do a consultation or something. They assess your deficiencies and correct for them.”

“Don’t get your hopes up,” John quipped. “It’s just exercise and table etiquette, not a personality transplant.” Or so he hoped.

**

The gym was nice. The people who ran it were patronizing, though not in the sexy way Sherlock was, more like they were talking to small children. Or, yes, dogs. Like a parody of daycare workers, full of fake bubbly enthusiasm and oh so willing to use small words to explain concepts. When John tried to reply as an adult—and a medically-educated adult, who knew the proper terms for muscle groups and metabolic processes—he got blank looks as though he’d slipped into another language.

Then he looked up the trainers’ backgrounds, because no way was he going to put himself in the hands of someone who only got this job because they were someone’s athletic niece. They all had solid degrees that should have included anatomy and physiology, though, so John could only conclude they never heard anything from slaves but the most mild, insubstantial remarks. Which he had to admit was borne out by the behavior of the other slaves there, who were uniformly quiet and, John would say, _grim_.

The gym in the slave quarters had been friendly at least, as friendly as anywhere that was all-slave—even the trainers were slaves, who had had some extra education but were mainly self-taught and experienced. Of course the equipment there was not as good, probably cast-offs from _this_ place, John decided. He could tell things weren’t _brand_ new for the family slaves, but almost, and there was a greater variety of equipment and options, despite being used by far fewer people. They even had a pool and a sauna, and a masseuse.

John could get up in the morning, grab some coffee and a muffin from a kiosk, head to the gym for a workout, end with a swim and a soak in the hot tub, come home and take a shower in his own bathroom or in Sherlock’s ridiculously huge one, then lie on the couch with a snack watching telly. Somewhere in there, usually between finishing the workout and turning on the telly, he began to feel very negative—angry at himself for enjoying his life _as a slave_ , depressed at the thought of other slaves and poor free people who had it worse, melancholy with longing to _really_ go home, to London, followed immediately by the bitter reminder that there was no one there waiting for him and he’d end up time-serving in a chaotic clinic somewhere, able to afford only the most basic flat. And he’d probably still have a limp. And no mad berk with blazing blue eyes and fabulous cheekbones to stand in front of him and accuse him of thinking too much.

“Hey,” John protested, as he realized the telly was black.

“I turned it off thirty second ago, John,” Sherlock pointed out imperiously. “Clearly you were not really watching it.” John could not argue with that. “The brochure said exercise would lift your mood,” Sherlock went on, studying him closely. “They seem to have got it wrong with you.”

John rolled over on the couch, facing the back. “Did you see Molly today?”

“Yes.”

“When’s she getting out?”

“Tuesday, John, the same as it’s been for a week.”

“I’m going to clean her room again,” John decided, but obviously didn’t mean right now, because he didn’t move.

John wondered what Sherlock would do. He figured either chide John for being glum or attempt to soothe him. Either one could be a lead-up to sex. John wouldn’t mind that, something that felt nice and distracted him for a while.

Instead, Sherlock sat down on the couch, wedging himself into the crook of John’s knees and putting his feet up on the coffee table. Then he started playing with his phone. It annoyed John at first, the way his elbows jabbed into John’s legs, but then he began to find it kind of cozy and matter-of-fact. Comfortable, like they could do that with each other. How many slaves and masters had that kind of relationship?

Sherlock laughed suddenly, which was a rare enough sound that John twisted around to look at him. Something on his phone, of course. Must be good, Sherlock was positively giggling.

“What?” John finally asked, smiling a little.

Sherlock looked up as if he’d forgotten he was there. “Oh, I just got a—“ He paused as if thinking about how to phrase it, which was never a good sign. “A report,” he finally said. “About you.”

“Me?” John repeated in alarm, trying to turn over. “What sort of—Could you let me—“

“This is a couch, John, not the circus—“

“Yes, I’ve noticed, thank you—“ He got situated so he was on his back, one leg on either side of Sherlock. He doubted Sherlock felt trapped, any more than a tiger would have. “What sort of report about me? From whom?”

Sherlock was reading it again and snickering. “The gym.”

John frowned. “I’ve only been going a week,” he pointed out. “Are they saying I’m not progressing enough? Because I’ve already increased—“

Sherlock waved this off. “They say you have a bad attitude,” he relayed, obviously finding this very amusing.

John, however, was first confused, and then angry. “Are you sure they’re talking about _me_? What—I don’t have a _bad attitude_!” he sputtered, struggling to sit up.

Sherlock started rubbing his inner thigh idly, which didn’t help with John’s concentration. “You aren’t subservient enough,” he conveyed, glancing over the text for choice bits. “You are ‘overly familiar and inquisitive with staff’ and you ‘distract other slaves with confusing comments.’ What the h—l does that even mean, John?” Sherlock was trying to sound stern, but since it was clearly hilarious to him, the chastising effect was lost.

“I don’t—I don’t know,” John said, leaning back with a sigh. “Those are awful things to say. Well, they _meant_ them to be awful, anyway. Why would they say that? I thought they liked me at the gym. There’s others they yell at, anyway…”

“Ah,” Sherlock replied, as if that was significant. “’Overly familiar and inquisitive’—I bet you engage in _small talk_ , don’t you, John?” John made an affirmative noise and Sherlock a triumphant one. “Good morning, how are you, where did you go to school, what’s your degree in—I do track your browsing history on the computer, you know, John.”

“Oh? Really?” John was slightly distracted by Sherlock using his position to slither on top of him.

“You probably make eye contact, too,” Sherlock predicted. “What’s the thing about distracting comments?”

“Oh. Umm…”

“You don’t seem intimidatingly intelligent right now, John,” Sherlock prodded, which might be due to where he had his hands.

“Deltoids,” John blurted suddenly. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “I was explaining about muscle groups,” he tried to remember, as Sherlock nuzzled his neck. “And-and the endocrine system.”

“Biology is fascinating, isn’t it?” Sherlock agreed. “So few people really appreciate it.”

“Yeah,” John sighed, appreciating it right now.

“Nonetheless,” Sherlock went on, and it took John a moment to realize he had pulled away slightly, expecting to be listened to. “You need to fit in better, John. For them and their small minds. Why do you need to speak, anyway? Just go there and exercise.”

“Yeah,” John repeated, but much more dispiritedly. “I just—I like talking to people.”

He knew Sherlock wouldn’t understand this, because Sherlock hated talking to people. Or he would say John could talk to _him_ , which was not always the kind of challenge John was up for. “Go down to the slave quarters and talk to people,” Sherlock advised, surprising him again.

“I can go back there?”

“Certainly. If you want.”

John wasn’t sure he _did_ want to. He hadn’t exactly been close with anyone, except Molly. But it might be nice to see some friendly faces—some of the kids who didn’t yet understand what life had in store for them, some of the elderly people who no longer cared about their restrictions. Anyway, it was nice to know he had the option.

“Thanks,” he told Sherlock fondly.

Sherlock sat up to better remove some clothing, because apparently they weren’t making it to the bedroom today. “Do you ever see a slave called Henry there?” he inquired. He had a remarkable capacity for _not_ getting distracted, no matter what John did. Which just made those rare moments of incoherence all the sweeter. “Dark curly hair, about so high, usually scruffy?”

It was an odd question. “Um, sounds familiar,” John hedged.

“He belongs to my cousin, Carly,” Sherlock went on. “Cedric’s sister. Pointless girl. Henry is of moderate intelligence, though.”

“Moderate intelligence?” John repeated, feeling a sudden stab of jealousy. “Oh, do you prefer the scruffy types now?”

The remark went over Sherlock’s head, which was probably for the best. “Obviously not,” he replied, tugging John’s shirt off. “You _have_ showered, haven’t you? You may find Henry worth conversing with. As Carly’s tutor he’s somewhat more knowledgeable than most slaves.”

“Wait, hang on.” Per usual Sherlock introduced what could be an important concept at an inopportune time. “Your cousin has a slave as a tutor? How old is she?”

“Oh, eighteen or nineteen, I suppose,” Sherlock dismissed. “Why is that odd? Don’t rich people in England have tutors?”

“Well, I guess,” John agreed, “but they’re usually highly educated. University degrees. You’ve got to have knowledge beyond what you’re actually teaching, don’t you?”

Sherlock paused, which was too bad, and blinked at John. “Henry teaches Carly about sex,” he finally said bluntly. “And reinforces her etiquette lessons, comports himself well at social events—“

“What?” John’s mind was slightly boggled.

“How do rich people in England learn about sex?” Sherlock queried. Now _he_ was the curious one.

“Well I don’t _know_ , not being one of them,” John replied pointedly, “but I imagine it’s the same as the rest of us. Trial and error?”

Sherlock waved this off. “Inefficient. And potentially risky,” he judged. “In Nicobar wealthy offspring are given vetted slaves as tutors to make sure they have a proper sexual education.”

Somehow that explained a lot of things about this messed-up society, John thought. “Did _you_ have one?”

“Um, no,” Sherlock told him, as if just now realizing this. “I was always mature for my age. I was already doing experiments with Molly by the time I would normally have gotten one. Mummy and Mycroft felt it was unnecessary, I suppose.”

John grimaced. “Your mother and brother would’ve set it up?” Imagining his mother interfering in his sex life was enough to put him off for days.

“Well who else would do it, John?” Sherlock asked rhetorically. He was clearly getting peeved by the judgment he sensed. “It’s considered a sign of responsible parenting here.”

“Right, of course,” John agreed quickly. “Better to know who they’re with, than for them to be running around with strangers.”

“Or free people who can’t be controlled,” Sherlock added.

Yes, it always came back to that. Control over what you feared, including people. “Can we go in the bedroom?” John asked, hoping to refocus them.

“If you like.” Sherlock sprang up and pulled John after him, which John chose to interpret as eagerness. “I’ve been meaning to revisit some of those initial experiments I did with Molly,” he went on, with what was for him a nostalgic tone. “Perhaps you can help me with that,” he said, looking at John speculatively. “Except for the ones I’ve been banned from doing, of course,” he sighed indignantly.

“Banned?” John might end up regretting this entire conversation, he feared.

**

Intimidatingly intelligent. That was what Sherlock had called him. Though Sherlock’s sincerity, and judgment, were always in doubt.

The next time John went to the gym, he kept his eyes down. He spoke politely but minimally, and only asked a question when he really needed to. Even then he tried to phrase it carefully—his master wanted him to do this or that, no reference to John’s own opinion on the matter. And gradually he noticed that the staff relaxed around him, and became a little more straightforward and less patronizing. Because he was fitting the mold they expected—he was under control. Or seemed to be.

By the time John got around to his swim, he felt as though he’d put on a disguise, to slip past their defenses. Perhaps he was a sleeper agent, since he didn’t have a mission or a timeline. He didn’t have to change who he was, he could just pretend, and be proud of the skillful way he’d fooled them.

Somehow John knew this optimistic take would not last long, but maybe it would become something positive he could return to when he was feeling particularly low. Sherlock didn’t seem to mind his more normal behavior and neither did Molly, so he didn’t have to pretend with _them_.

There was someone else in the sauna when he arrived—dark curly hair, scruffy, about so high. “Say, are you Henry, who belongs to Carly?” John asked. They were the only people there, no staff, so he let the mask slip a bit.

The man—young, maybe early twenties—opened his eyes, and they were not the dully eyes of a beaten-down slave. They had some life in them still. “You must be John, who belongs to Sherlock,” he returned with a wry smirk.

John settled down on the other end of the bench to relax his muscles. “That’s right,” he confirmed. “He said you were moderately intelligent.” He was curious to know how this would be interpreted.

The wry smirk stayed in place. It was a complex expression for a slave. “That’s quite a compliment, coming from Master Sherlock.”

“Yes,” John agreed.

“How do you like living with him?” Henry’s tone was nothing more than polite, but John knew that gossip could travel quickly here, so he kept his own voice equally casual.

“Oh, not bad at all,” he replied. “We had a slight disagreement at first over whether tadpoles belonged in teakettles, but we soon got it sorted.” Henry chuckled at that. “How about you?” John asked. “I understand you’re a tutor?”

“Yes, you’re a foreigner, aren’t you?” Henry recalled, not judgmentally. “I don’t really belong to Carly, I’m actually owned by her mother, Lady Caroline, and temporarily—“ He stopped talking automatically, closing his eyes as a trainer popped in to check on them. Once the man was gone, Henry continued. “—temporarily used by Carly. She’s about to go off to uni, though,” he added, a bit wistfully.

“What will happen to you then?” John asked curiously.

“Lady Caroline may have some use for me,” Henry shrugged. “Or she may sell me to someone else for use as a tutor. Or I could go back to the pool of house slaves, maybe train _them_.”

“So your life would be spent teaching people about sex?” John summarized dubiously. “Er, hands-on?”

“Considering what I used to do on the street, this is much better,” Henry assured him. John heard that a lot. “But what about you? One hears rather strange things about Master Sherlock.”

“All true,” John quipped. “Except—he’s honestly not that bad. He has rules, he explains them, he doesn’t hurt people just for fun. And if I don’t want to have sex he doesn’t force me to.”

Henry cracked an eye open at that, as if checking John’s sincerity, or sanity. “Beats people with belts and so forth?” he asked mildly.

John felt there was a lot of misinformation out there about Sherlock. “It’s really not a beating,” he tried to explain. “It’s very scientific. Controlled, methodical.” This hadn’t reassured Billy, though, and Henry merely blinked at him. John leaned back with a sigh. “Still sounds barmy, doesn’t it?”

“I’ve heard worse,” Henry promised.

They were quiet for a moment, relaxing. “Carly is Cedric’s sister, right? I met him once,” John offered.

“Mmm,” Henry replied, as if any topic involving Cedric was too dangerous for words. After a moment he added carefully, “I prefer Carly.”

“I prefer Sherlock,” John concurred, and Henry nodded like he understood where John was coming from.

They sat in companionable silence until a trainer felt they’d been in long enough and shooed them out. John had enjoyed the conversation though—it was more straightforward and, for lack of a better word, normal than many he’d had here. Hopefully Henry was a regular here. Did slaves ever get together for coffee or telly? John supposed if both masters gave permission… He was _not_ going to ask Sherlock to ask Carly, though. Too reminiscent of his mum setting up playdates when he was a child.

John left the gym in a mellow mood, which was probably just as well, because if he’d been angry or depressed he probably wouldn’t have been able to handle seeing Cedric lurking in the hall. As it was John froze and felt the cold rush of adrenaline start to flood his body. Then he remembered he was no longer available to Cedric, ever, and his heart calmed somewhat as he resumed walking.

“John, isn’t it?” Cedric said, as if he didn’t know. John had to pass him to get back to the suite.

“That’s the one,” John replied jauntily, slightly forced.

“Sherlock’s bought you now, hasn’t he?” Cedric jumped in front of John, blocking his path, and John had to stop abruptly to avoid running into him.

“Yes,” John replied, daring to meet Cedric’s gaze. “And he doesn’t like me to be late getting home.” Sherlock probably wasn’t even _at_ home, but it was a reasonable rule.

John moved to the left to go around Cedric, but the other man stepped in front of him again. Cedric’s hands were firmly in his pockets and he hadn’t touched John; free people learned early on how they could provoke and torment slaves without getting into trouble. “Can’t believe Sherlock actually bought slaves,” he went on conversationally. His eyes darted over John in a calculating way. “Big responsibility. If you’re naughty his mummy will be so cross with him,” he added in a sneering tone.

John grinned slowly, which made Cedric uneasy. “Why don’t you come along home with me?” he suggested cheerfully, enjoying the confusion on Cedric’s face. “You and Sherlock can discuss that further.” He very much looked forward to what Sherlock would do to Cedric, if he spoke about Mummy disrespectfully. Perhaps it would involve whatever was squirming beneath the sand in that new terrarium Sherlock had labeled ‘do not touch.’ With that he slid past Cedric and walked firmly away from him, without seeming to rush.

“John-221, come back here!” Cedric ordered. “I’m not done talking to you.”

“I really don’t care,” John replied, with a tremendous and dangerous sense of freedom. “My master wants me to come home right away.” That was for the benefit of the security cameras—mustn’t be rude to free people without good reason. He heard the footsteps coming up behind him and swung around abruptly. “My master says I must do everything I can to defend his property,” he warned. He’d heard that line, several times, on various local soap operas. If Cedric made the first move—grabbed his arm, say—John could strike back, and not be afraid of the consequences. He was almost looking forward to it, automatically sizing up his opponent—no doubt Cedric had some skills, not to mention viciousness, so John’s strategy would be to come on strong, weaken him right at the start—

Cedric was no dummy, give him that at least; he could size John up as well, and though chillingly he seemed to like what he saw—liked the idea of breaking him, as John had told Mycroft—he wasn’t prepared to start today. He smiled then, and restrained himself. “We’ll have to chat about that more at a later time, John-221,” he said thinly. Then he jerked his head dismissively, as though giving John permission to leave.

Part of John wanted to say or do something that indicated he was leaving because he wanted to, not because Cedric told him to. Another, smarter part said he just ought to leave while he could, and for once John chose to listen to that part. Turning his back on Cedric warily, he continued on down the hall and around the corners, occasionally glancing back to make sure he wasn’t being followed. Security was supposed to be tight here—there were cameras everywhere—but, well, look what happened to Molly. And John really didn’t know just how fast the guards would come running for a slave being attacked by a family member.

But he kept his mind clear and his stride purposeful, until finally he was able to swipe his finger over the door panel and gain access to the suite. He pushed the door shut tight behind him, then let out a shaky breath and slid down the door to sit on the floor, his head hanging between his knees.

“What’s wrong with you?”

John gasped in surprise. “What are you doing here?” he demanded of Sherlock, who was in his work area (aka the dining room), back turned to his microscope.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “I live here, John,” he responded with comforting sarcasm.

“But you’re never here during the day,” John complained rashly, suddenly imagining that Cedric might’ve followed him back to the suite, rushed in somehow. “What if I need you?”

“Then you can contact me by phone,” Sherlock replied calmly, starting to see that there was an Issue to deal with. “You may also contact Greg or Mycroft if there’s an emergency. You have their numbers?”

“Yes, yes,” John sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Sorry, I just…” He trailed off, feeling foolish now and not sure where to begin to explain himself adequately.

“Does going to the gym upset you?” Sherlock inquired curiously. “I have already said you may use the gym in the slave zone if you prefer—“

“No,” John assured him. “Thank you.” He waited for a patronizing demand for more information, but none was forthcoming, and when he looked up at Sherlock the man just gazed back expectantly. “I ran into Cedric in the hallway,” John finally admitted.

He could see this didn’t register with Sherlock. “You belong to me, therefore Cedric can do nothing to you,” Sherlock noted.

“I know—“

“ _Did_ he do something to you?” Sherlock interrupted sharply.

“We just spoke,” John assured him. “Though I felt the subtext was threatening,” he added, trying for a lighter tone.

Sherlock stood and walked over to him, offering him a hand up and then pulling him close. John appreciated the gesture and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist, laying his head on his shoulder. Somehow this made everything seem simpler. “If Cedric touches you at all, you can defend yourself,” Sherlock allowed, then corrected, “Defend my property. That’s what you say.”

John smiled against him. “That’s what I told him,” he reported.

“Or call for help, the guards are supposed to respond to that,” Sherlock went on. “There are alarms on the walls, pull them.”

“Aren’t they for fire?”

“Any emergency.” Sherlock encouraged him to lean back so he could look him in the eye. “He will try to provoke you. Don’t let him,” he warned. “Walk away.”

“That’s what you do, is it?” John asked dryly.

“Well, _you_ have to be more careful, John,” Sherlock reminded him in a condescending tone which made John smile. “It’s hard to get his movements restricted unless he really does something out of line. Talking with a threatening subtext won’t do.”

“Well, I’ll wait until he sets me on fire, then,” John suggested in a cheeky tone, and Sherlock at least recognized this was meant as a joke and rolled his eyes.

“I am certain he would not proceed with the same spirit of scientific inquiry,” Sherlock replied, with dignity.

“No.” John liked just standing there quietly with Sherlock, but he knew the other man would get bored soon. “Where do you go all day, anyway?” he asked, changing the subject.

Sherlock released him. “Research,” he said meaningfully. “The library, the clinic, the aquarium—anywhere that might have the resources I require.”

John did not ask exactly what he was researching. He imagined it to be gruesome yet pragmatic. “City morgue?” he guessed.

Sherlock paused on his way back to the microscope. “I wouldn’t leave the compound without telling you,” he announced, a bit unexpectedly.

“Oh,” John replied. He was certain this signified something, though he wasn’t sure what. “Good to know. I probably ought to come with you, don’t you think?” he added. “It can be dangerous out there.”

He thought he saw Sherlock smirk slightly as he turned away to his microscope. “I have some fascinating slides to show you,” he claimed, “illustrating the abnormal chromosome separation during mitosis of this plant.” He tapped the pot of a small tree with his foot. “But first you must shower,” he mentioned pointedly.

“Good idea,” John agreed. “Thanks for putting up with it for so long.” Though with the odors Sherlock created during some of his experiments, you’d think he didn’t even _have_ a sense of smell. “Oh, I met Henry,” he added as he walked away. “Nice chap.” He thought he heard a noise in response, but Sherlock was already peering through the eyepieces, sketching something. John hurried off to complete his shower, oddly looking forward to spending more time with his master doing something relatively normal.


End file.
